


Navy Blue

by Kalincka



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Aromantic Herodotos, Aromantism, Asexuality, Boat Dads, Declarations Of Love, Family, Found Family, Hints of Kassandra/every girl on the Adrestia, I mean it's basically canon right?, M/M, Other, Platonic Relationships, There's a lot of aro feels in this one, Very soft I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 09:58:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19148740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalincka/pseuds/Kalincka
Summary: One day, they find themselves at the stern, on each side of the fire, and Barnabas asks him about something.You've never wished for a family?From that point on, it's the pointed finger on something Herodotos can't explain.





	Navy Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Bleu marine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19051345) by [Kalincka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalincka/pseuds/Kalincka). 



> I do think I've never posted such a personal fic, because it's very rare to see any aromantic characters in any media, yet the fact that Herodotos is never interested in any form of romantic interaction has challenged me enough to do something about it (well, knowing me, I often don't need much to write). His relationship with Barnabas is really sweet (I swear, all the little talks when you sail past some islands are some of my favorite moments in the entire game, it just feels so... Domestic and I'm really here for it) and I saw the opportunity to write a little about aromantism, because as an aro person, I don't often have the opportunity to do so, and it really meant something for me. Oops, end of the sentimental author's note.
> 
> PS: It may be useful to have some knowledge on flowers' language! Henry Green, this one's for you!

“You’ve never wished for a family?”

The question’s not nasty, only a little bit awkward. Herodotos, eyes suddenly laid on Barnabas' face, gently shakes his head. Some kind of melancholy weighs on him.

“That's not really it.”

“So what? Aphrodite's call leaves you indifferent?”

Barnabas has spoken in a sincerely troubled tone. Herodotos rolls his eyes almost reflexively, while a dismayed smile stretches his lips, but he does not pick on the divine mention:

“It's not a choice. Almost. I never wanted to. Nobody has ever been of interest to me.”

“What about Corinth?”

Now that’s unexpected.

Laughter roars in his throat before he even realizes it; amused, the historian meets the equally sparkling gaze of the sailor, who has just become aware of his clumsy comparison. He needs some time to calm down, but his smile remains gigantic, because in the question he has just received, there is no sign of the usual disdain that could have shone through. There is only the naïve will to understand, that will that has always brought them together, even if their ways of seeking the truth are divided between religion and testimony.

He’s not afraid of Barnabas. He’s not afraid of the misunderstanding that could fill his features if he fails in explaining clearly his feelings. For the first time, he realizes that he wants to explain the matter to someone - and that someone is special enough for him to allow himself to do it.

“I do not see… The point of a commitment. In short or long term. I never… Had the spark.”

Barnabas listens attentively, serious despite the still relaxed expression of his joke. He raises an eyebrow:

“Loneliness doesn’t scare you?”

“It's not a matter of loneliness, Barnabas. It's a matter of feelings.”

There is a small silence. Not much, a mere hollow in the middle of their talk, yet Herodotos swears he hears the click snapping in Barnabas’ head, who smiles in a sudden way:

“Not even one night stand?”

“At my age?” he retorted in a condescending tone.

“And in your youth?”

“Journeys and books were far more interesting.”

And then Barnabas bursts into a thunderous laugh, which goes further than the lookout; a sparkle that would make the moon jealous, because it floodlights the moment with unbelievable joy. It's not disrespectful. It's as sincere as the captain has always been.

It's too pleasant.

For a few seconds, Herodotos feels like he can not breathe - nothing to do with an asthma attack, though; it's softer and stronger, too, it tightens his ribcage as if to tell him to remember that moment. He must not forget it and he must hold it in the hollow of his chest.

So Herodotos takes the memory and holds onto it. They spend the rest of the night talking, sitting at the stern. It's enough.

* * *

“What about you? You’ve got a family?”

The question slips from Herodotos’ mouth the evening after. They’re at the stern again, it’s midnight again.

Barnabas smiles, as if the question holds out a special meaning to him:

“Of course I have one.”

Then he embraces the Adrestia with his single eye, the folded sails, the three Spartan shields piled up against the mast, the figurehead just like that of Ikaros’, the bows of the daughters of Artemis scattered on the deck. He holds onto the hatch closest to the command post, where they went to sleep. Roxana sharpens her sword and her legs are swaying quietly over the sea: she’s sitting next to Myrrine who sharpens her own spear, and the two women are whispering almost as quietly as they do.

Kassandra is gone. They are moored in Kythera and tonight she’s staying ashore.

Herodotos thinks having this conversation near Aphrodite’s island has something funny about it.

“I am married.” Barnabas carries on, tearing his eye of the Adrestia. “I lost my wife at sea.”

He says that with such exceptional lightness that it sounds nearly normal. Herodotos does not have time to apologize.

“I've never found her.” The old sailor explains without showing an ounce of sadness. “But I know… I know she's out there. I may not find her again, but I know that a nasty storm’s not enough to kill her.”

A silence floats. Too heavy, Herodotos thinks. The question rolls hardly on his tongue:

“What's her name?”

The smile that appears on Barnabas's face is disproportionately large. He has a sparkling eye, as if something has slipped into the question and Herodotos didn’t paid attention to it.

“Leda. Her name is Leda.”

And it strikes him.

He has spoken in the present tense, where others would’ve thought that a wife lost in waves was part of the past. That's what makes Barnabas smile. He’s the one making Barnabas smile.

“She would have liked you.” The sailor quietly adds up, likely for himself.

Herodotos brutally stares at the fire, frowning because he can no longer think, and it's annoying.

“Well, a family doesn’t stop at marriage, hey?”

Barnabas resumed the conversation by leaning back slightly to stretch his arms. His smile hasn’t disappeared in the least. His eye is on Roxana and Myrrine: Roxana has brandished his sword as if it was a magic, likely broken spear, which surely belongs to the daughter of the woman next to her. The comparison entertains Myrrine even more when the tiny warrior drops a swear word well appreciated by Kassandra.

Herodotos watches them, too. He knows that Barnabas is sending him a message.

So he answers.

“No, it doesn’t stop at marriage.”

And since they both seem to agree on this, they do not say one more word all night long. It's enough.

* * *

On the third night, there is no words exchanged. Kassandra has returned from Kythera, and she brought back a flower to put in her mother's hair. The Adrestia has left, from now on they’re heading to Chios; Alexios is tired of wandering on the deck and his sister kept a bouquet for another daughter of Artemis, whom she left behind. Odessa threw a challenge at Thyia, a tale of sharks and arrows - it's up to Kassandra to get the sharks when slaughtered, because no one else’s strong enough to take their meat underwater, and the two women are in stitches when she comes out, completely soaked, after being pushed overboard by her brother. When they all eat the grilled flesh all around the fire, Herodotos calmly thinks that marriage seems all the more ridiculous.

They’re on a calm sea that night, and it is almost midnight. The silence is as flat as the waves. They’re at the stern again. Both of them. Everybody’s sleeping.

And then:

“I think I love you.”

Zeus split the Adrestia in two with his lightning, and all the gods of Mount Olympus had leaned over their mountain's edge to look at them.

These words are too empty and full at the same time; they are so laughable, and at once so serious, they are dual-sized, no one can truly understand those apart from them both. A painless flash goes through Herodotos. The feeling’s so strange, because the words that Barnabas has just used aren’t loaded with the meaning they’re usually given. He thinks about Kassandra and his mother, the flower in her hair, Roxana and Myrrine on the deck last night, about Odessa and Thyia, Leda, all those feelings that could have been put aside in a box or hid under a label.

He should’ve hurried up, replied with a very soft _no, you don't love me_  and likely a  _and neitheir do I_ , because it would’ve been too difficult to say that yes, he did love, but not in that sense and probably in no sense at all and it was so hard to explain a blank, to put words on a void and not on a whole, to make someone who’d always had this presence understand that he’d never known the same feeling. He should’ve shaken his head, looked for a way out or a way to reassure him, said it wasn’t his fault - it wasn’t his fault either but he had to apologize, as usual, otherwise hearts would suffer. Excuses, flee, handle your own, deny: always the same mechanisms when speaking of love.

And there was none of that.

They stare at each other for a moment, breath short, almost nonexistent, even though they’ve barely moved. It’s the staring that tires them. At the bottom of the eye staring at him, there are a thousand and one question marks which shimmer and clash, so much he feels like he’s seeing the reflection of a tide in Barnabas’ gaze. The captain looks at him in silence, and it is rare enough to be underlined - no tribute to Hera, this time, no praises for Poseidon, only Apollo comes by to snuff out words they do not need. The embers’ glow, nearly out, digs and lengthens the wrinkles on Barnabas’ face. It stamps fresh rings under his eyes, two pale pink circles on his cheeks, which, at another hour than that of midnight, would have taken the name of shyness.

Herodotos feels like he’s falling. Falling for what, he doesn’t know yet.

Sea smell sticks to Barnabas’ himation. The fabric is so full of it that its faded blue color seems to have been stolen from the Aegean Sea. Poseidon’s medallion, laid in the hollow of his neck, shines under the fireplace’s glow: the polished metal of the trident and the red paint flaked off by salt warmly reflect the flames’ cheering, as if echoing the faith carried by the jewel. He never thought of asking the captain where did this talisman come from. He never asked him if the god’s presence frightens him like the first days after so much time spent on the waves, or if he has become a familiar entity, a name as unpredictable as the ocean that is now part of his life. Does his scar still hurt him, and has he kept traumatic reflexes when he sails near the Forgotten Island where Kassandra wants to go. Herodotos knows that he is keen on questions, though - but none of them cross his lips. They stay there, shoulder to shoulder, by the fireplace, on a ship. Two old men staring at each other without saying anything.

It is Barnabas who breaks the silence again. He arms himself with a few words and shatters the smooth, clear glass that built itself between them without much reason.

“You feel it too, right?”

He wants to reassure himself, to check that he didn’t say something foolish. It’s touching, really, the way Barnabas looks at him with infinite respect in the eye, always worried not to cross his boundaries. There’s a huge pit behind this “it”, and Herodotos knows this feeling better than anybody else: he knows what this question wants for an answer, he knows what it's like to reach out and never meet one’s hand back. In the hollow of his chest, his two days ago memory bangs and feels like it wants to come out, in a strange force that echoes Barnabas’ words, answering to his call without any hesitation.

It's a whisper that leaves his tired mouth.

“Yes, I know.”

Yet it doesn’t have a name: it’s unseen, it doesn’t move, it lurks in the heart without a word as an identity. It's discreet, too much so. Though they have several ways to describe love, it’s neither ἀγάπη nor ἔρως, at least not yet, and of all his life he was never interested in ἔρως anyway. It’s a strange mix of φιλία forged to στοργή. Yes, φιλία is already much closer; but there’s another unspeakable part, still more powerful, that slips through Herodotos’ fingers like a fish.

Herodotos frowns. That is unfortunate.

And then Barnabas tilts forward, leaning a little more against him with his shoulder. It's Herodotos’ arm that touches his this time. It's a lot less unfortunate than thinking, but still…

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me.”

His voice is really low, Herodotos suddenly realizes; it doesn’t rise higher than the smoking curls in front of them, which vanish at the slightest breath of wind. If he was not so close to Barnabas's ear, maybe his words would have flown away too, not finding any audience. On his head, his hood flutters lightly. It has a smell different from that of the sea: it smells of marble dust and of heavy stones, of its travels’ wear and tear and of the hot hills of Attica. Barnabas laughs, very softly, with the same muffled voice as his.

“Gods know.”

Herodotos assumes it’s the case. He shrugs. Well at least he moves his left shoulder, because his right shoulder is contiguous to that of Barnabas and the gesture makes him slip a little more against the sailor; not that it bothers him, since he’s tired anyway. He hesitates for a moment, he wonders whether to find a more stable posture or whether to surrender and go to sleep in his usual place under the stern - but the arm against his own gives him an offended little tap at this idea. His head ends up lodged in the hollow of a dry, salty clavicle, and the navy blue himation’s smell bursts in his face.

For the silence to be so deafening while being with the other has something supernatural. The ones that never cease talking prefer not to say anything.

Two storytellers, leaning against each other, end up holding hands.

Barnabas revives the embers with his free arm, taking care not to move his left shoulder too much. He doesn’t seem worried at all, at least to all appearances; some small red glitter fly away after his poking and is reflected in his single eye. Herodotos sighs - he's tired, really tired, and by the Gods, he feels _good_ \- and he allows himself to close his eyes.

He loves him too.

“I do wish for a family.” He breathes in a quiet voice.

Another little laugh is lost over his head. It's too pleasant.

“You already have it, you know-it-all.”

And that's enough.

Not far from them, beneath the light of the dying fire and carefully brought back from Kythera, stand two blooming branches of wisteria.


End file.
